Yesterday, I couldn’t find the heart to write anything, being so pre-occupied with Toby’s sudden illness.
After he saw the vet last Wednesday, he rallied, seeming almost himself for a few days.
Then suddenly he went flat again. He lay here, close to my desk, on top of a cat tree and I kept looking up, expecting to see that he was no longer breathing.
We had hoped to discuss the situation with our vet, but there was a communication failure. Anyway, It wouldn’t make much difference as we will not subject Toby to any major procedures that will serve only to upset him.
Toby opted to sleep downstairs last night. I half expected Grant to tell me this morning he was gone.
Instead, Toby arrived himself to let me know it was 0630 and could he please have something nice for breakfast.
In the living room, I found one of the largest, Toby-coloured hairballs I have ever seen. Could that have been what ailed him? We would love to think it was as simple as that. I am sure it is not.
Toby has always been thin, no matter how we try to fatten him up and he tested negative for thyroid problems, so I think he must have an inefficient digestive system that does not absorb nutrients.
We are watching him closely and treasuring him.
But I can’t let my heart break every day.
It’s what I am all too inclined to do, of course, allow my heart to break. If not over Toby, there will be something else. This morning it was a bird. I went to fill the feeders on the lawn and found a little dead sparrow. It had not been there as night fell, so I can’t guess what happened. It had been savaged but then abandoned.
As always, I picked the little body up and held it in my hand, whispering to it. Then I laid it amongst the thick greenery where maybe some other creature will find a meal, or the sparrow will just return to Nature.
How pointless is it, to be brought to tears over a sparrow? There are millions, probably billions of sparrows in the world and doubtless thousands die every day. Am I to cry over all of them?
In decades of therapy, I have never found the answer to this awful weakness in my head.
Lately, I’ve been thinking that I should take up my doctor’s suggestion of returning to psychotherapy.
There have been too many black-hole moments that I have been unable to easily crawl out of.
An adjustment of my anti-depressant is probably needed. I was told, decades ago, that I have a chemical imbalance and that I should view taking anti-depressants in the same way I view taking my thyroid supplement.
The person who told me this knew nothing of my story, so I have never been quite sure of the truth.
But I don’t want to talk about all that anymore, so I have a great reluctance to seek an appointment.
On the other hand, my primary care doctor can’t be expected to know all about anti-depressants and the one attempt he made to adjust things was disastrous.
This morning I made an appointment to have steroids injected into a rather tender part of my anatomy. Of that, I have no fear.
Surgery? No problem. Needles, blood draws, fine.
In the days when I was able, I was happy to give blood donations.
But seeing another psychiatrist?